C29H44   O12

He shelved the powder of wabo yo

In the nostril cavities of the self;

The ego of mortality’s shallow

Desires flooded with immortal elixirs:

She stood still, naked in a snowy field,

Featherless as turkeys marked for massacre

In a thanksgiving of feasts.  Pen eyes yielded

Her frightened freedom.  And he, the grey

Fox, in a nearby hole, shivered rivulets

Of purified urine.  Porcelain sleighs

Drawn high by two mourning doves winterset

Their minds, cleansed their bodies, and lifted their hearts

To the wine song of the gods.  The chase started

Here . . . somewhereinbetween . . . there

The race started.


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